Introduction. July 12 2025
When I was a shyly aspiring writer in my mid-20s, all of my writing was destroyed. Notebooks since I was ten years old, stories, books of poems, everything I had ever typed on my typewriter, and the beginning of a first novel.
After a while, I slowly started writing again. But instead of filling whole books with tiny neat handwriting as before, I couldn’t leave the notebooks in peace. I ripped pages from their bindings almost as quickly as I’d written them. I had a wild need to open the cover of every notebook to a blank page, and felt destabilized at seeing my own words. Around 2014, I began to collect torn pages and type some passages into a Google Doc called “DAILIES”.
More than a decade later, still compulsively shredding my notebooks, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. The psychiatrist told me that it had probably been undiagnosed since my late teens. After deep and intense grief, My second reaction was: Fuck it, we ball.
Remembering life’s short and then you die, and also, who gives a shit, I began to feel that I didn’t need to categorize everything I did as sorry, corrupt, and insufficient, because really, what did it matter? Fuck fear, and fuck self-hatred, and fuck my ongoing belief that I am fundamentally shitty. I am not grand and glowing, as I sometimes think. Not lowly and unworthy, as I sometimes think. I’m just another person. As an experiment in low-stakes, unapologetic self-disclosure, I decided to start posting my remaining journals in my own pocket of the internet. I will never be gracious enough to justify the publication of these entries. But, I will proceed from 2014 and might one day catch up to the present.
Thanks for stopping by. I’m glad you’re here.